


Temptation, boxed

by esmew



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Missing Scene, Some angst, based on the cut scene with the chocolates, books and chocolate and angst and pining what's not to like, sandalphon is a bastard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esmew/pseuds/esmew
Summary: When I - a Good Omens fan of 20 years - read the missing scene (https://www.reddit.com/r/goodomens/comments/bye4o5/deleted_aziraphale_and_crowley_scene_in_the/) I of course had to Google exactly what sort of chocolates Crowley would have taken Aziraphale in 1800s, and found out that chocolate shops in London at that time were total dens of debauchery, blamed for inciting all sorts of "new motions of the flesh" then... this just sprung into my head.I've never written fan fic before and haven't finished a fiction piece in years, so thanks to the TV show for setting the sparks going again. There are some amazing fics on AO3 that have only added to my enjoyment of the book and show, and so thanks to all those for existing too. There is no way this will match up to any of them, but some of you may enjoy it I guess!First chapter is Crowley, second is Aziraphale, third will be them both together.





	1. Chapter 1

A glass smashed against the wood panelling above Crowley’s head, sending splinters of glass and spurts of dark liquid across the room. He smiled like a viper.

All things considered, he was proud of chocolate.

Okay, he’d not summoned it into being. The Almighty’s creation of the glossy-leaved, red bean bearing plant was, he conceded, one of the rare decisions they’d made which he wasn’t going to question. And the chopping, and the drying, and the “what happens if I put some of this stuff in that hot water” and the “alright, pretty good, how about some sugar as well, maybe some milk next” – that was all the humans.

But Crowley had added the final ingredient.

The one which made chocolate _work_.

Temptation.

Without that, the whole experience was just too…godly. Cacao started off _nourishing,_ for hell’s sake. Even the humans had always seemed to recognise there was some divine force at work within it. Moctezuma thought it was a bridge right between him and the Gods, and he’d been right, more or less, the Almighty having been in that horrible nostalgic mood in the 16th century, when human sacrifice just wasn’t the done thing any more and she’d chosen Tenochtitlán as the place to relive the good old days. Below had been intrigued, and Crowley had been sent to trudge through the jungles with the Spanish invaders and find out what was going on.

Cages of men and boys being fattened up for sacrifice. Stone knives being sharpened. Limbs hung up to dry like cuts of meat. That was what was going on. He’d been so sickened that he’d performed a minor bit of divine intervention without even really thinking about it. Cortes had developed a momentary conscience. The Spaniards had put their feet down.

“This stuff is only alright in moderation, do you understand me?” Hernan had snapped at the translator, gesturing at a still twitching heart, borne aloft by a High Priest. “Why can’t you fellows just burn your enemies alive, like the rest of us?”  
By the time things had settled down, all that was left of the rituals was the xocolatl. Moctezuma was still downing pints of the stuff and when he invited the metal-clothed God[1] and his men to join him for a drink, Crowley, paranoid that someone downstairs would soon spot his meddling intervention, had seen an opportunity to redeem – no, to keep himself damned - and pounced.

“Marquis Cortes, have you had any of this stuff?” he had asked, remembering to sweat underneath his armour so his fellow conquistadors didn’t get suspicious. “It’s worth a taste. Maybe the guys back home’d like it?”  
  
This was his first time carrying out what, in his presentation downstairs much later, he called “Tempting at Scale”, and it worked a – well – a treat.  
  
“Look, it’s quite simple. I’ll say it again, guys. Try to listen. Pick. Your. Targets. Strategically. Get the right human, and his fall can be the WORLD’S. Do you see?”

The damned had stared blankly.  
The tiny seed of enticement he’d sown in Cortes, he explained with a sigh, would bear fruit for millennia. Fruit which would rot the teeth from skulls. Fruit which would turn kidneys into poison. Fruit which would stop hearts in chests. Chocolate meant millions of people, every hour of every day, becoming easier to tempt with every “ooh I am naughty”. Chocolate meant them knowingly desecrating the bodies bestowed on them! With sugar, and with fat, and later on with things as far away from nourishing cacao as was possible to imagine –choco rocks ™ and choco pops © and – Crowley bit his lip in delight– chocolate body butter.

Chocolate would come to mean temptation itself.  
  
The demonic hordes were always confused at how pleased he was with this _chocolate_ – not because they didn’t get Tempting At Scale, but because they were baffled as to why this sugary fatty stuff was the part of the story he wanted to focus on. But he never wanted to talk much about what else happened in Tenochtitlan. What had happened after the after the chocolate.

It had taken him nearly half a century to quell the nausea. A century to stop dreaming about how stickily similar blood and xocolatl looked when they were spilt and drying in the hot sun.

Humans, eh? You couldn’t take them anywhere. Whilst Cortes, the pig, had been sucking the last of the drink from his beard hair, and Crowley had been lengthening his tongue so he could get to the bottom of his goblet, the conquistadors had been staring transfixed at the vessels themselves. They were full to the brim with the drink, which sat thick and dark against their sunshine brightness. Double-headed snakes curled round them, picked out in chips of turquoise. And they were gold. Solid, heavy, pure gold.

When Moctezuma, nonplussed at the open mouthed gazes, had offhandedly summoned another 30 gleaming cups and his armfuls of bracelets had chimed as he clapped at the servants, things had got totally out of Crowley’s control.  
  
Pestilence, still in his prime then, had taken credit for the smallpox. As for the slaughter - Crowley hadn’t stuck around past the first few hours, but hadn’t found the balls to correct Hell when they awarded him a commendation for it.  
  
That had earned him hours of righteous fury from Aziraphale. Crowley had been too shamefaced to argue with him.

“A whole people, Crowley,” the Angel had wailed. “A whole people… a whole continent, soon enough, _decimated_. For nothing! Nothing but greed and prejudice and cruelty. And this will reverberate for centuries, do you understand? Centuries of murder and exploitation and then when they inevitably rise up against it they’ll be tramped on some more. Oh of course you didn’t do anything to cause it, _per se_ , you never _do_ anything, but you did nothing to _help them_ , did you? Absolutely nothing, and besides that. Besides that... _how_ you could bear to be even accidentally connected with such a thing...! Well. It really is beyond me.”  
He had sighed, wearily. “I think its best we don’t speak for a while. Yes. For the best.” He had looked forlorn and ragged in his disappointment.  
“Please don’t try to get in touch, Crowley. I shall contact you. Once I have the grace to forgive.”  
  
There'd been decades of white hot silence after that. Now, nearly three centuries later, the demon looked deep into his chocolate, winced at the memories and drank. He scorched his mouth and grimaced; swallowed the pain like a pill, took a breath. Straightening up in his seat, he cast a coldly proud stare around one of the finest results of Cortes’ first sips of temptation.

White’s Chocolate Shop. It was known as “the most fashionable hell in London”, and Crowley frequented it out of both amusement at the inaccuracy of the epithet and masochistic homesickness. It looked nothing like Below: the wood panelling was as rich and as dark as the chocolate they served here, and people were having fun, dressed well, and haloed by the golden light of huge, twinkling chandeliers. But thanks to a huge open fire constantly stoked by smashed spirit bottles, White’s was also blistering hot, and it nurtured a certain evil chaos that even Hastur would have appreciated.

And it was all thanks to chocolate. With the hellish tang of temptation coursing through it, it had become one of the most expensive habits one could have, and this had created another glorious depravity Crowley was awestruck by. Those who partook came for the drink, but they stayed for the company, feeding off both the sugar and the unique and dangerous opioid humans were particularly prone to: the dark comfort of _sameness_ , the enveloping headiness of being surrounded only by others exactly like themselves. The rich and thick quaffing the rich and thick. And in Crowley's experience, he thought, sprawling back and surveying the room with a smirk, what happened when you got a lot of rich people in a room with nothing but other rich people was always, always, always exactly... this.

A pit, filled with gammon masks and braying howls. Rakes, defilers, the odd murderer and – Crowley shuddered – _landlords_. A few years ago some poor bugger’d staggered in off the streets with a stab wound and within seconds a roar of bets had been taken on how many minutes he had left. When a few men had got to their feet to try and help, others had sat on them, braying that the aid would affect the odds. The bloke’d bled out[2], all over the Queen Anne sofas. Today, hot chocolate, gin and teeth were being spattered round in equal measures thanks to a large brawl taking up half the room, whilst the seats in the far corner were taken up by a nest of what claimed to be a newly formed political party but which looked to Crowley like a perfect set up for one of Mr Hogarth’s morality prints. Even from across the room, over the chocolate, gin and sweat, he could pick out the watery reek of greed and bigotry.  
  
His booth was quiet, something he was working hard at. Any human who glanced over simply didn’t see the available seats, or the long bodied, darkly dressed dandy lounging across them, looking proudly at his mug of chocolate and pointedly avoiding looking at the small velveteen box in front of him. He didn’t mind the company here usually[3], but today he was in No Mood.  
  
White’s didn’t usually do this with their wares.

“You want it… in a box, my Lord?”

“Twelve. Boxed. Yes.”

The serving woman had looked perplexed. “You don’t want us to melt it down for a drink– just to…?”  
“Look. It’s very simple. It’s very….” Crowley had waved a hand. “European. The Medicis used to do it. You’ve heard of the Medicis? Never mind. Look. Take your basic chocolate. Melt it down. While it’s all… melty, stick some… I don’t know, some stuff, say… I don’t know, fresh jasmine, ground amber, musk, vanilla and a bit of ambergris which, all of which yes, I just _happen_ to have here, with me, here you go, put this in it, in these quantities, probably, and then let it cool, let it set, cut it up… give it back to me. In a nice – in a box. Or something. Whatever.”  
She stared at the bag of ingredients he’d tossed onto the counter, and then at him. Crowley cast around for something to say which would make her hurry up.

“It’s for _medicinal purposes._ It’s for a _friend_. _”_

“Oh!” her face cleared, and she cast him a knowing glance. “I see, my Lord. Certainly.”  
  
That was yesterday. He’d had to wait a few hours for it to be ready, and then he’d had to sit a few more, waiting for himself to be ready. She’d brought it out winking, and trussed up in a purple box tied neatly with the gold ribbon he’d strung the jasmine together with.

“I’m sure your friend will be very appreciative of the medicinal effects, my Lord.”

He chose to coldly ignore her, because he still wasn’t quite sure what she was winking at him about, and because it meant he didn’t have to say thank you. He was behaving far too nicely as it was.   
  
_I mean what else am I meant to do?_  
_Get him a book?_  
_Ha._  
_I’m not meant to do anything. And he – he’s not meant to expect anything._  
_And he won’t be expecting anything, will he, because he’s not meant to expect anything. Desire anything. Want anything. He’s so bloody good._  
_For crying out loud, what if he acts like he’s meant to. What if…_  
_No. He doesn’t act like he’s meant to any more than I act like I’m meant to. Not any more._  
_That’s not all true, is it. He tries, doesn’t he. He’s not…_

Crowley’s irises flared into slits and he ran a hand through his hair. He eyed the box with the same look he reserved for the orchids in his hot house. But the box knew its worth, and did not tremble a millimetre.

 _I’m just taking him something to say congratulations._  
_I’m only taking them because I want to eat them myself, anyway. Not had Cosimo’s recipe in over a century. And eating someone else’s gift is a real bastard of a thing to do, so that’s fine._  
_It’s fine._

_You’re taking temptation itself to an angel. You know what you’re really doing._

He blinked. He wasn’t sure that last thought had been his.

Over his head, a carafe of wine hit one of the chandeliers, and exploded. Without blinking, he put out a hand to shield the golden ribbons.

[1] The Aztecs believed Cortes and his men were Gods, prophesised for centuries to come to aid and lead them. The ineffable plan, eh.

[2] This actually, genuinely happened. Aren’t rich people awful?

[3] Apart from the political party, the Tories, who Crowley had always avoided in case he was accidentally awarded another commendation for their existence. He had standards.


	2. Chapter 2

Ten minutes walk away, on the corner of a street in Soho, Aziraphale was sighing with pleasure. His eyes were gazing upwards, following every lick of a paintbrush as it danced above a door frame.

“Oh! You’ve done such a marvellous job. Perfect. It’s the exact gold I wanted, you know.” He patted the wall in satisfaction then clasped both hands together in reverence. “Against that red it looks positively splendid. Like a sun rise, isn’t it? And you’ve been so neat with the lettering. So sharp and clear. Thank you so very much. You’re a simply wonderful craftsman.”   
He beamed like the stars.  
The sign painter gave an awkward nod.

“It’s jolly good. Tip top.”

The angel carefully stepped over the pots and brushes, cast the blushing painter another pleased smile, and walked into his shop. His shop! It was small, yes, and the shelves were still empty, but it was bright, and warm, and the floor was strewn with cosy rugs and full of travelling chests which were overflowing with every tome he’d collected carefully over the centuries. The 14th century illuminations he’d done with his own hands, the _Buggre Alle This Bible_ , a signed copy of _Gulliver’s Travels_. The programme from that first showing of _Hamlet,_ grape-stained. They were all here, they and hundreds of others, just waiting to be unpacked and lived with.  
  
No more hauling them round after him, storing them under the unused beds in his lodging, worrying about the damp. He’d be able to walk amongst them. Pick one out at will. Take it down from the shelf, over to the pair of armchairs and footstools he’d ordered; sink into the cushions; miracle up a glass of red, _read._ If the occupant of the other armchair – and here he felt his mind jump sharply – wanted to read, he could, or else just finish the wine. Maybe take a stroll amongst the shelves himself. Maybe one day he’d pick a novel up, bring it back to the chairs, open it, find a passage and then they’d both fall together, into that sunny, silent spot of the enchanted reader. Aziraphale _longed_ for Crowley to pick up a book.  
  
He shook his head slightly, then shut the door to the shop. The bell struck sharply. He put a hand to the frame, checking it was smoothed enough, that the varnish was hard and dry. It was, of course, as were the other bits of woodwork, as they had been every time he’d checked for the past week. He’d spent a month sanding woodwork, nailing down loose floorboards, whitewashing the walls and hammering up the shelves with his own two hands, not wanting to miracle anything. It wasn’t just that it hadn’t seemed right, to use divine intervention in a bookshop. It was more that it simply hadn’t seemed _necessary_. 

Here, he thought, picking up a gilt edged beauty and placing it reverentially on a shelf, here was the best miracle of all. Here was literature. Here was humanity, in all of its precious forms. Here was creation, creating other creations. The world birthing worlds. Those worlds birthing more worlds! And it all brought such _pleasure._ Such togetherness. People learned of themselves in books and they learned of others too. In the best books, everyone learned they were much like everyone else, and that that was glorious. Transcendental.

Books were such a powerful force that he’d often wondered who on his side had been responsible. Occasionally he was terrified it had been someone from Crowley’s end of things. What would he do then, if he had to give up books, for eternity? But no. It was all them. Humanity. Even when they hadn’t had paper, he remembered, they’d scratched away on cave walls, tree bark, clay tablets. Humans loved stories. So did Aziraphale. And now he had a place to keep all of his favourites.  
  
He scooped an armful of books from one of the trunks, cradled them against his chest, and began to whistle; moving deeper into the shop as he worked out what would nestle where. The gilt edges of the books glinted happily. Tiny motes of dust scattered up as he worked, and turned golden in the warm beams of the afternoon light.  
  
The silver bell above the door chimed coldly.  
  
He continued to put the books to bed, but called out over his shoulder, warmly. “I’m afraid the shop will not be open until Friday, good people. But we will be having a grand opening immediately after lunch then.”  
He was looking forward to the grand opening. He was going to make flummery, and some charlotte puddings. He’d ordered a selection of sandwiches, and delicate pastries. He’d been practicing his magic tricks.

“We aren’t here to buy books, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale went very still. He put down the book he had been holding, hiding its spine against the back of the shelves, and kept his hand rested on its cover.  
Gabriel and Sandalphon were standing in his doorway. They were both wearing powder blue trousers and ornate tail coats. Light glinted from silver buttons and the sharp tips of their canes. The sign painter was hurriedly bowing at them from the pavement, as he cleared his supplies from around their feet.

“Oh. Oh dear.” He gave a small bow. His voice had gone high, and panicky. “Listen, if it’s about that business in Paris, um, it wasn’t my miracle…”

Gabriel stepped inside the shop, footsteps echoing coldly on the bare floorboards. His brow was furrowed, just slightly. “I have no idea whereof you speak, oh Angel of the Eastern Gate. We are here with good news.”

Aziraphale grinned nervously. “Oh! How lovely!”

“We’re bringing you home.”

Aziraphale bit his cheek, and Sandalphon gave him an appraising look. “Promoting you back upstairs.”

Aziraphale didn’t return his gaze, looking round the room instead. “I’m opening this bookshop on Friday. If Master Hatchard can make a go of it, then I think I can really…”  
  
Gabriel spread his arms like wings. He gestured at the shelves and looked pleased. “It’s an excellent idea. Whoever replaces you down here can obviously use it as a base of operations.”

Aziraphale’s stomach lurched. “Use _my bookshop_?”

Gabriel’s perfect brow furrowed further. He spoke slowly, as one would to a child. “You’re being promoted. You get to come home.”

Behind him, Sandalphon held _Robinson Crusoe_ up by one of its colour plates, grasped between finger and thumb, and made a face. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend five minutes longer in this world than they had to.”

“Aziraphale,” said Gabriel, “has been here for almost 6000 years. We must applaud such devotion to duty.” He beamed paternally and took a small box from inside his tailcoat, and sprang it open. Inside was a medal. It was engraved with a serpent, screaming as it was pierced with a blazing sword. “It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “I don’t want a medal.”

“That’s very noble of you.”

He looked out of the open doorway desperately. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and then he felt it stop. Haloed in a shaft of the afternoon’s last sunlight, looking at the name above the door and grinning like a bastard, was Crowley. He was holding a package, tied with golden ribbon, and when he spotted the angel had seen him, he waved cheerily.

Aziraphale stared, and Gabriel began to turn his coiffed head to see what had caught his attention. Aziraphale panicked further. _They’ll destroy him._ He found himself speaking in a rushed garble, instinct winning the race with his thoughts.  
“Only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley.”

Gabriel turned back.

The demon’s face fell in hurt confusion, and he pointed to the box. He mouthed, silently: “ _Chocolates_. _”_  
  
Gabriel smiled in admiration. “I do not doubt that whoever replaces you will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are,” he assured, and over his shoulder Aziraphale saw Crowley’s look of recognition, saw him take a step back slowly, almost sensed him on the astral plane, stepping round Gabriel’s aura, nudging away from Sandalphon’s wings.  
  
The archangel smiled. “We’ll send someone capable. Michael, perhaps.”

Crowley gestured angrily with the package, caution cast to the wind. He looked furious. “ _Michael?”_ he mouthed. “ _Michael’s a wanker!”_  
  
Aziraphale shook his head. His heart was hammering again now, beating against his chest like a caged bird. “Crowley’s been down here just as long as I have. And he’s.. he’s wily. And cunning. And brilliant. And, oh…” He made himself stop talking.

Sandalphon stopped kicking the boxes of books and Gabriel took a step forward. “It almost sounds,” he said in a low tone of warning, “like you like him.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He tried to remember himself amongst the ranks in heaven, how he’d once smote demons into million light year freefalls. Tried to conjure up some of that hatred. Tried to rearrange his face into the sneering mask he’d worn during that war. 

“I loathe him,” he spat. “But, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent.” The other angels both continued to stare, unfathomable. “Which he isn’t! Because he’s a demon. And I cannot respect a demon. Or like one. Obviously.”

“That’s the attitude I like to hear!” Gabriel’s voice returned to its usual bombast. “You’ll be an asset back at head office, I tell you that.”  
  
Aziraphale’s hand trembled and he gripped the book he was holding, hard. Where Crowley had been there was simply the cold blue evening air. He felt sick. Gabriel took the medal from the box and tied it around his neck.

“So we’re going straight back now? Before the grand opening?” His voice was small, meek.

“Well, soon. We’re just going to stroll down to Cork Street to see my tailor.” Gabriel brushed some lint off Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You want to come? You’re looking a little… worn in. And who knows when you’ll be back down here, right?”

“I’m quite alright, thank you. I… I try to make things last. Value them. Not be too wasteful.”

Gabriel let out a shout of pleasure. “This guy, Sandalphon! No wonder they want him back up there. Let him be an example to us.”

Sandalphon smiled grimly. “Yes, my Lord. Shall we make haste? The sooner we leave” –and here he shot Aziraphale a sharp look – “the sooner we three can triumphantly return.”

“Indeed!” Gabriel clapped his hands, “Let us depart.”

The bell chimed shrill and high as they left. Evening was falling. Cold beams of light were slanting through the windows, and the dust hung greyly in the air. Aziraphale looked round the shop, trembling. It had been his. It could have been theirs. It felt so empty.


End file.
